beautiful melancholy

the dreams left a bitter aftertaste

that stained my day

like smoke making eyes water

long after the fire is put out.

 

sometimes i miss riding on trains,

i think,

when things were simple

and all i had to pay attention to

was the voice naming stations,

and all i had to listen to

was the clang of metal on metal

and all i had to look at

were the fields blurring in the windows

like the watercolor paintings i did as a kid.

 

because it was easier then,

traveling at a hundred miles-per-hour,

surrounded by suitcases

and people who averted their eyes and

turned up their ipods.

i think my DNA could have unraveled,

my atoms disintegrated,

my hipbones snapped and my spine shattered until

i turned into a pile of stardust,

and no one would have even glanced up;

i could have drifted out the window

into the mess of fields and sky without anyone

even

noticing

and this thought filled me with a beautiful sort of melancholy

that would last throughout the day.

 

but i don’t ride the train anymore.

i’m just a mess of tangled sinews and broken bones

instead of stardust

and the beautiful melancholy has left me with nothing

but a bitter aftertaste that stains my days

like smoke making eyes water

long after the fire is put out.

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